So I used to think I was a normal cat parent… until I realized I had made my cats custom beds and they refused to sleep anywhere else.
It started as a joke. I found this little wooden bunk bed set at a thrift store—probably meant for dolls or something—and thought, “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if the cats used this?” I painted it green, added mini pillows and old pillowcases for blankets, tucked it in the corner of my room, and waited.
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Didn’t even take a full day.
Zita, my oldest, climbed straight to the top bunk, curled up like royalty, and gave me this look like, “Finally, some respect.”
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Luna claimed the middle bunk. She’s got this whole nest setup with one ear poking out from under the polka-dot sheet. If Zita even looks like she might switch beds, Luna growls. Like, actual turf wars over doll-sized furniture.
Even Nova—the shy one—slipped into the bottom bunk a few nights later like she was trying not to disturb the delicate balance.
Now it’s official. My cats have their own bunk beds, and they refuse to sleep anywhere else. It’s like the beds have become their sacred space, their personal sanctuaries that no other spot in the house can compete with. If I try to move their beds even a few inches, they’ll stare at me with those disapproving eyes, and I swear, I can hear them mentally sending me messages like, “This is not your decision, human.”
I never thought something so simple could create such an overwhelming sense of ownership. They’re cats, after all—animals that are supposed to be independent and indifferent, right? But the way they’ve claimed those beds, with a passion that rivals a treasure hunt, has honestly turned into the most amusing part of my day.
It didn’t stop there, though. Over the months, the whole bed situation started taking on an unexpected level of importance. Zita, my queenly tabby, developed a routine that left me in awe. Every evening at exactly 8:00 PM, she would jump onto the top bunk, settle in with that little tilt of her head, and look down at the other two like she was giving them the night’s orders. Nova would sneak up last, on the bottom bunk, waiting for the right moment to settle in. But God help anyone who tried to disturb the pecking order.
There was something funny about it at first. But as time passed, it became clear—these bunk beds were more than just a quirky place for them to sleep. They had become the space. In the mornings, they wouldn’t leave them until I was about to leave for work, and even then, there was a serious, almost haughty air about them as they rolled out of bed with the same grace as any pampered celebrity.
I had to admit: I had become a full-blown cat parent. And somehow, I couldn’t get enough of it.
One day, after coming home from work, I noticed something odd. The beds were empty, and I thought maybe they’d gotten out to explore the house while I was gone. But then I heard the faint sound of purring coming from the hallway. When I rounded the corner, I froze in my tracks.
There, right in front of the door to the laundry room, was Zita, staring at me with wide, judgmental eyes. Behind her was Luna—her ears flat against her head—and Nova was peering out from behind them, looking like she was about to bolt.
I glanced down at the floor where they had been staring, and my heart skipped a beat.
There, on the floor, was a single, perfectly placed pillow—an exact match to the ones on their bunk beds. My mind raced, but then I noticed the other pillows scattered nearby. They were… rearranged. Like someone had tried to make another sleeping area for them in the middle of the room. But they weren’t using it. They were guarding it.
I couldn’t figure it out. Had they found a new bed for themselves? Did they want to sleep somewhere else?
Then, it hit me. This was no ordinary protest. This wasn’t about them finding a new spot. This was them telling me that the bunk beds were their territory, and any intruder—be it an extra pillow or a new bed idea—was not acceptable.
I crouched down slowly, and in that moment, I realized something: My cats had turned my world upside down, and now they were teaching me a thing or two about boundaries, comfort, and owning your space. They weren’t just quirky little creatures—they were creatures who knew exactly what they wanted, and they weren’t about to settle for anything less.
As ridiculous as it might have seemed, I couldn’t help but feel proud. They had created their own little world, one where they felt safe, secure, and completely in charge. And here I was, just the humble human, learning how to navigate their rules.
But there was another side to this. A side I hadn’t considered.
A few days later, I had an old friend, Ellie, over. Ellie had been away for a while, and we hadn’t caught up in ages. As we chatted in the living room, I noticed her glancing over at the corner where the bunk beds sat, the cats nestled in their usual spots. I was about to say something about their new routine when Ellie spoke up, an eyebrow raised.
“Are they seriously sleeping in those little beds?” she asked, her tone a mix of amusement and disbelief.
I laughed, explaining the story behind it, and just as I did, Ellie’s face changed. It went from curious to puzzled, and then it clicked.
“You’ve become that person, haven’t you?” she said softly, a little smile tugging at her lips.
I stared at her, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a cat mom now. Like, really a cat mom. I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”
I laughed, feeling a little embarrassed. “I know, I know. I might have gone a bit overboard with the beds, but… I swear, they love them. They need them.”
Ellie looked at me for a moment, then her eyes softened. “You know, sometimes we give too much of ourselves to the things we love. We do these little things to make them happy, to feel like we’re making a difference. But at the end of the day, it’s the little things we do for ourselves that matter too. You’ve created this whole little world for them, but don’t forget to create one for yourself, too.”
Her words hit harder than I expected. I thought about it for a second, and something clicked inside me. Yes, I had gone all out to make sure my cats had the best of everything. But what about me? What had I been doing for myself lately?
I had been so caught up in taking care of them, making sure their beds were perfect, that I’d forgotten to take a step back and care for myself. I was a full-grown adult, and somewhere along the way, I’d let my identity get a little lost in the role of “cat parent.”
That night, I decided to do something for me. Instead of just sitting on the couch watching TV with the cats, I took some time for myself—reading a book, enjoying some quiet, and actually taking care of my own well-being. And it felt good. It felt like I was finally remembering who I was outside of being their caretaker.
The twist? A few days later, Zita, Luna, and Nova all slept in the same spot—on the couch with me. They gave up their bunk beds for a night, and I realized that sometimes, when you stop overcompensating for everyone else’s needs, the universe finds a way to balance it all out.
Sometimes, giving yourself the space to exist outside of what everyone else expects from you leads to the most unexpected rewards. The cats? They were happy just being with me, regardless of their fancy beds.
The lesson here? Life is about balance. You can love deeply and care for others, but you also need to remember to care for yourself, too. Because when you do, you’ll find that everything else falls into place.
If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it with someone who might need a reminder that taking care of yourself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.
